


he's all that

by alecbaenes



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, Literally No One is Straight, M/M, Sort Of, Underage Drinking, adhd!richie, aka bev/richie/mike are huge stoners, idk a pettywose, loosely based on she's all that but i make it gay and have actual substance, painter!eddie, richie is sort of popular, stoner!richie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alecbaenes/pseuds/alecbaenes
Summary: Richie smiled smugly, “You’ve got spunk Kaspbrak. I like that.”“Why don’t you try shutting the fuck up Tozier,” Eddie retorted as the line moved forward, “So what is this, if not some ploy to get me to tutor you? Some sort of dork outreach program? Because I’m not interested.”---Or: The one where Richie Tozier has six weeks to get into a relationship and make someone fall for him. Only problem? That someone is the anxiety ridden, goody two shoes Eddie Kaspbrak, and he can't even stand to be in the same room as Richie.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! hope you enjoy this fic, i will try to update it at least every other sunday (i'll figure out the exact number of chapters before i post chapter two, but it probably won't be more than 10).  
> you don't need to have watched she's all that to get this, although there will be some small easter eggs/quotes from the movie. but the movie has not aged well and is very Heteronormative so like.... no need to watch it lmao.

Senior year— it was what just about any kid in the public schooling system looked forward to. You were high school royalty, enjoying the last hurrah with booze and dancing before being sent off to make your mark on the world. Lanky limbs that weren’t yet grown into became muscled and toned, hips were wider and swayed. Brains were wiser, skin was touched more, and smiles were brighter. It was a time of transformation and change.

Except, senior year was almost over, and Richie Tozier felt like he hadn’t really changed at all. Sure, in the last four years he shot up to 6’2, his voice was deeper, and he wasn’t such a fucking outcast; but really nothing else felt different. He still only passed his classes on genius alone, had a problem respecting authority figures (partially due to the fact that his parents were still pieces of shit), and never knew when to shut the fuck up.

Derry, Maine itself stayed the same too, like a town in a snow globe encased with mom-and-pop businesses and ignorance. Other than iPhones, the small Starbucks on the corner of Main and Belmont, and the fact that the townspeople were slightly less homophobic and racist ( _slightly_ being the operative word); Derry was pretty much a time capsule for banana bikes, bullies, and double features with popcorn that had too much salt and not enough butter.

Take the cliques and social hierarchy-- a staple in any American high school, especially one in a small town. Despite it being the 21st century, the cafeteria still had tables for jocks, geeks, nerds, and preps, straight from some 80’s or 90’s teen flick.

Richie, like most things in his life, didn’t necessarily fit into one group or the other, toeing the line between social pariah and popular party dude. He supposed it was the side effects of being the class clown with too-big-for-his-face glasses, a diagnosis for ADHD, and his tendency blazing at any given moment. Funny and wild enough to show up to any party, but not exactly cool enough to hang out with for anything else.

Honestly, it didn’t matter either way, because instead of worrying about what table to eat the cafeteria’s barely edible food at, Richie usually spent his lunch smoking with his friends. It was time to catch up and unwind before the last few classes of the day— and there was no way he could get through chemistry without being high.

As soon as the shrill bell rang, Richie hopped out of his seat, grabbing his shit before placing his (probably failed) history quiz on the teacher’s desk on his way out into the halls.

He weaved through the couples sucking face and the worried AP students, his unruly black curls bouncing like a hyperactive halo around his head as he walked towards his locker.

“‘Sup Tozier!” someone called out to him, a familiar face at the weekend ragers, although he never learned his actual name.

Richie nodded, “Hey, what’s up Keg King?”

“Not much. Hey, you coming to see me defend my title this weekend?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Richie smiled lazily, patting the other boy on the back before strolling along.

It wasn’t a coincidence that his smile faltered as he passed what was left of the Bower’s gang. He and Hockstetter had graduated the year prior, although like most bumfuck racists hellbent on beating up ‘dorks and queers’, they stayed in Derry. The remaining two, Belch and Victor Criss, weren’t nearly as powerful or psychotic as their elders, but they had a reputation to uphold. They weren’t exactly slamming him down on the asphalt in front of the arcade like they did in middle school, but they weren’t friendly either. Mutual respect was even a stretch. He’d enjoy seeing them get their asses handed to them, and he was sure they felt the same.

Richie popped open his locker, catching the loose papers and pencils that inevitably fell out. A small mirror hung on the blue metal door, rendered practically useless because of all the smudges covering it. The remaining space was littered with stickers of indie bands, and post-its with doodles and notes to himself or from his friends.

_Have a great day trashmouth <3- bevs _

_Sparknotes ‘Pygmalion’_

_Come to the quarry after school!-mike_

_It’s a good day to be gay_

_Next time u get drunk enough 2 facetime us reading the entire bee movie script pls invite us so we dont have 2 deal w/ that sober- b+m_

_Buy more cigs and weed_

_U lewk hott big sexxxi ;) - xoxo_

Richie was unashamed to say he wrote the last one to himself one day when he looked particularly good.

He struggled to stuff his history folder into the looming mess, but eventually crammed it in there, slamming the door shut before anything else could fall out.

After checking that he did indeed have his lighter, bag of weed, and papers in his denim jacket, Richie made his way to their usual spot. They liked to smoke at the stairs behind the art room, which was tucked away in the back of the school, overlooking the field that separated them and the middle schoolers.

Throwing open the orange door to the stairs in his usual dramatic fashion, he found his two closest friends, “Ms. Marsh, Lord Michael, how fare thee chaps today?” Richie greeted in his (awful) british accent.

Beverly Marsh rolled her eyes as she lit her joint, “Fine, until I heard that horrible voice.”

Richie threw a hand on his chest, a pained expression painted on his face, “Oh, how you hurt me so.”

“Hey, I mean it _is_ his best impression,” Mike Hanlon commented from the steps, fist bumping Richie as he sat down across from Beverly on the top of the stairs, back to the railing. The sweet boy lit up the bowl in his pipe, inhaling deeply.

“Aw, thank you Mikey, you sure know how to make a girl swoon,” he cooed, mimicking a southern belle.

“Well, you don’t really have any good one’s in the first place,” Mike smirked, blowing out the smoke in his mouth while Beverly snorted, taking another drag.

Richie rolled his eyes, taking out his bag of weed, “Fuck off Hanlon.”

Mike extended an olive branch in the form of paper lunch bag filled with a sandwich, chips, and a can of coke. It was a daily occurrence for them— the Tozier’s rarely had any food, and even if Richie wanted to eat from the cafeteria, he didn’t exactly get a lot of money from them.

“My upcoming munchies thank you dear friend.”

He opened his bag of weed, attempting to balance the paper on his knees so he could roll his own joint. This failed miserably as the weed fell out, getting all over his Radiohead t-shirt.

“Shit.”

Beverly sighed, holding out her hand, “Let me roll it Tozier, you and I both know I’m better at it anyways.”

“What?! I’m perfectly capable of doing it by myself. I roll a damn good joint Marsh,” he shot back incredulously.

She plucked a stray piece of weed and gave him a pointed look. Richie groaned before handing his stuff over, Beverly handing him her own joint to smoke on in the meantime.

“How’s your day been Rich?” Mike asked from his spot on the steps. Typical farm boy, concerned with his friends. Richie often wondered how such an angelic person hung out with him and Bev, but Mike had his fair share of rebellious traits.

“Ah, well, you can tell it’s been just dandy. I can’t wait till we get out of this fucking hell hole,” Richie scoffed before taking a hit.

“Only seven more weeks,” Beverly reminded, eyes and hands focused on rolling.

Mike nodded, “Crazy. Can’t believe we’re finally graduating.”

“Thank fucking god, Derry is a suffocating shithole,” he said, “I know I’m an idiot, but Jesus, everyone here is a fucking bigot.”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, not saying much else. They understood. It was hard being one of the only black kids in school, let alone pansexual (although most people didn’t know this about him). The prejudice he faced wasn’t something he often spoke about, trying to be as positive as possible.

“This kid in english was saying bisexuals are sluts today,” Richie successfully blew a few smoke rings, “Like, I _am_ one, but not because of my sexuality, asswipe.”

Bev laughed humorlessly, handing Richie the freshly rolled joint and taking back her own, “No need to tell me what that’s like.”

No, the redhead had been getting called a slut over nothing since the seventh grade; the rumors and shaming only getting worse when she too came out as bi.

A comfortable and reflective silence fell over the three, occupied with their thoughts and getting high. Richie placed the joint in between his chapped lips; struggling to light the tip as his white lighter sputtered, on it’s last moments of life. Mumbled expletives fell out of his mouth before he was successful, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in before letting it all escape.

His dark brown eyes scanned the poorly maintained sports field, filled mostly with middle schoolers running around and yelling. Part of him envied the carefree nature of it all, but the other remembered how fucking shitty middle school was and any jealousy washed away.

Not too far from them was what was dubbed as ‘the kissing tree’. The old trunk was littered with carvings, initials surrounded by hearts claiming that their love was ‘forever’. It was juvenile, small town as fuck, and heteronormative— though most things surrounding romance in Derry were.

Of course, Richie had been obsessed with it as a preteen, and knew his own name was on there (a few times).

What caught his eye now were the couple under it, making out passionately, flush against one another, like if they stopped they’d die.

Honestly, that would be preferable, as one of them was Gretta Keene, one of Richie’s biggest mistakes.

Gretta was one of the most popular girls in school, and she was also a grade A bitch. Her green eyes sent glares akin to daggers, and her lipgloss covered lips provided insults that went too far. Including frequently calling Beverly a slut.

It wasn’t like Richie had a huge crush on her or anything. Their relationship was merely born from constantly being at the same parties, cross faded and wanting a quick hook up to distract themselves. Mike had commented that it was only a matter of time, except one became many more, despite the fact that Gretta only got with jocks.

Their arrangement caused Bev to freeze Richie out for two months last semester, breaking their four year streak for best couples costume at Betty Ripsom’s annual Halloween Party. Bev was more important to him by a long shot, but per usual, he kept fucking everything up.

Most of their ‘moments’ were shared in some stranger's bed, or dancing in a kitschy living room to pop music, sharing a blunt or swigs from a bottle of whiskey. None of it was on purpose, but rather a byproduct of being intoxicated and having a high sex drive.

In fact, they had only been on two actual dates when they were together. The first was at the drive-in a town over, the pair sat in Richie’s beat up station wagon, some shitty b-movie playing on the large projector. Gretta shared a pack of cigarettes with him, and it was probably the only kind thing she had ever done. Richie tried to make conversation, so that their relationship actually had some sort of substance other than weed and alcohol; but Gretta quickly shut him up, sticking her cherry coke flavored tongue down his throat.

He took her out to his favorite diner for their other date, figuring that they might have a chance to actually get to know one another without an acceptable place to make out. They sat on opposite sides of a booth outlooking Main street, an old-timey song playing on the jukebox.

This plan proved to be a grave mistake, because Richie finally understood why Bev often said, “Satan himself thinks Gretta Keene is too cruel.”

He repressed the memory, if he remembered it he’d get too pissed off. Instead, Richie thought of their break-up, how she had beat him to the punch.

_He had been waiting at her locker, leaning against #405 and picking at his nails, humming a song by The Smiths under his breath. Gretta approached, clad in a pink mini-skirt and a tight crop top, smacking her half-priced bubblegum._

_Richie cleared his throat, standing upright, ready to chew her the fuck out for being such a horrible person, “Gretta, let’s talk—“_

_“We’re through Tozier.”_

_“What the fuck?!” He had gaped at her, “No,_ **_I_ ** _was going to breakup with_ **_you_ ** _!”_

_Gretta shooed him away with her manicured hands, “Please, you’re a fucking nobody. Irrelevant. You should be glad we even fucked around this long.”_

A small crowd had formed around the two, “ _You’re the one who kept coming back for more.”_

_“And you’re the one who actually thought this could be something. So cute. But I don’t date losers and I don’t date attention-whores like you.”_

Like he said, grade A bitch.

“Jealous?” Mike snapped Richie from his thoughts.

His cheeks reddened, embarrassed that he was caught staring, “What? No. I pity the poor bastard that’s with her. Fucking breath smells like a fucking dog ate a pack of Winston’s. Straight up ass.”

Beverly chuckled, but her eyes held a little bit of resentment, “You used to smoke those Winston’s with her.”

“I thought we had an agreement that we would never speak of the Great Gretta Keene Mistake again?”

“Sure, but you’re the one watching her,” Mike pointed out, packing a new bowl, “Missing the one that got away?”

The other boy’s tone was joking but Richie sent him a glare, “She’s fucking irrelevant to me okay?”

They hummed in agreement, but he could see the slight doubt on their faces.

Richie ripped open his bag of chips and threw one in his mouth, “She thinks she’s such hot fucking shit, but she’s _so replaceable_.”

“Richie, it’s rude to speak with your mouth full,” Mike admonished his bad manners.

“That’s not what your ol’ pops said last night when I was suck-“

“Beep beep, Richie,” Mike warned.

Bev shook her head, “Really Rich? His _grandpa_?”

“When opportunity strikes,” he flashed a shit eating grin before taking another hit.

“Anyways, while I second the sentiment that Gretta isn’t all that, you haven’t exactly had a relationship since her,” Bev accused.

“Okay, what the fuck is this, ‘pick on Richie day’?” he said, readjusting his position, “Besides, I’ve been with _plenty_ of other people.”

“Please, this isn’t middle school, and I’m still not buying the whole ‘my bedpost is covered in notches’ bit,” Bev inspected the joint between her fingers, now just a stub.

“Well, obviously it’s not. I’ve had sex in many different beds. Yours included,” Richie smirked.

“Beep beep. You know you aren’t allowed over after you almost burned down my aunt’s apartment.”

“The apartment was _fine_ . Everyone knows if you put the temperature up super high food cooks faster. Those tater-tots would’ve been delicious. _Bon-appetit,”_ Richie spoke in a poor french accent, and his eyes widened, “ _Bon-appe_ **_tot_ ** _. Bon-appetatertot_.”

He fell into a fit of giggles and Mike chuckled across from him.

“You are a walking disaster Richie Tozier,” Bev said, though an amused smile sat on her lips.

“Richie’s poor life choices aside… One night stands and drunken make out sessions don’t count,” Mike returned to their previous topic, “I mean something sort of serious. Something you put effort into.”

“I don’t put effort into anything Michael dear,” Richie countered.

“Not true. You put effort into a lot of dumb shit,” Bev put out her joint, “Like when you tried to climb the water tower at 3 am naked. Or the time you tried to get the principal to grind with you at homecoming.”

“You can’t blame me for that. Mrs. Marton is a _vixen_. Can’t believe she resisted my charms.”

Mike laughed, shaking his head, “Point is, it kinda seems like you’re stuck in a rut.”

“I get plenty of action,” Richie boasted, taking a drag from his joint, “Plus, I could make any girl or guy in this piece of shit school fall in love with me.”

“That a bet?” Bev grinned mischievously.

“You know what, why the fuck not?” Richie shrugged. He was bored, and he wanted his friends off his fucking back, “Terms and conditions?”

“Mike and I get to choose the sorry fuck who you’ll be pursuing—“

“No, I don’t wanna be a part of this. Isn’t it kinda fucked up? Getting with someone for a bet? Why don’t you just try to date someone without an ulterior motive?” Mike suggested.

Richie rolled his eyes, adopting an Australian accent, “Now where’s the fun in that mate?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You get till prom to sweep this person off their feet. A committed relationship, not just a hookup. If you win I’ll get you a shit ton of the finest weed the county can offer,” Bev continued, “If you lose—“

“No need to tell me, because I won’t fail,” Richie smirked, “I’m a total knockout.”

Bev’s face mirrored his own, “Fine, it’s your funeral.”

Both of them spit into their palms before shaking their hands, bonding the bet.

“C’mon, let’s go find them— you only have six weeks.”

The three of them packed up their shit, passing around the rest of Richie’s joint so it wouldn’t go to waste before they headed inside. Bev spritzed some perfume on them in an attempt to mask the smell of weed, making Richie smell fruity and floral. He popped a stick of spearmint gum in his mouth, deciding to save his sandwich for AP Calc next block.

It was a rare occurrence for them to roam the halls before the lunch bell rang, so a few of the students stared at them as they went on their search. Mike smiled at just about everyone they passed, a fucking angel per usual.

“What about him, he’s kinda cute,” Bev suggested, nodding her head to a blonde boy holding a skateboard.

Richie shook his head, “We made out at that beach bonfire over the summer. He almost vommed in my fucking mouth. The money maker! These beautiful lips are fuckin sacred— how could I smooch and tell amazing jokes if he fucked em up? These babies ooze charisma and sex appeal.”

“More like ooze bullshit,” Mike quipped.

“I think you’re just jealous that you won’t be the one I’m wooing Mike n Ike.”

Bev snorted, “I pity the poor fuck who you’ll be annoying till prom,” her eyes lit up, and she turned to Mike, “Hey, we might be able to enjoy some peace and quiet for a while!”

“The minute we became best friends with Richie I gave up all hope for tranquility.”

“Hey!” He protested, although Mike was right.

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” the other boy finished sweetly.

Richie planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek, “Oh Mikey, you are the most wholesome-est boy I ever did meet,” he slipped into his southern belle persona, “What about you Bevvy darlin’, got any words to butter up my biscuit? To milk my udder?”

She rolled her eyes and continued walking ahead of them, turning into another hallway.

“Fine, I know you love me Marsh,” Richie used his long lanky legs to his advantage, catching up to stroll alongside her quickly, “What about Betty Ripsom?”

Bev scoffed, “Please, too easy.”

“What?! She’s like, a good ol’ Christian girl. I’m a deviant! My skype username used to be tozier666! Or wait, it was tozier42069… I can’t remember.”

“C’mon Richie, we all know she had a massive crush on you freshman year,” Bev replied.

Mike nodded in agreement, “You wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Like most things,” Bev said, “Anyways, you’d just use that to your advantage. Although, I am liking the whole ‘polar opposite’ approach.”

Richie groaned, of course he had a hand in his own misfortune.

They continued to travel the halls, Beverly’s baby blue eyes scouring for a victim.

“You sure are digging your own grave today Rich,” Mike commented.

Richie nodded, “R.I.P. Richard Tozier. Big Mouth and even Bigger Wan—“

“Found ‘em,” Bev interrupted, a grin on her face.

She pointed down the hallway in front of them, where two boys conversated as everyone walked around them. The taller one had auburn hair, and was lanky like Richie, although the other boy seemed a little more muscular. The other looked like a fucking middle schooler, and Richie wasn’t sure how the little brat even got in there.

It took a minute, but Richie realized that he did actually recognize them. They didn’t interact much, not being in the same circles, but the two boys had been going to school with him since the days of recess. And they had been bullied since then too.  

So, correction, she pointed to where two of the biggest losers in school were talking about what was presumably some nerdy shit. Great.

“What, Big Bill?” Richie raised an eyebrow, “He’s not too bad. Ignore the stutter and the fact that he’s best friends with total dorks and you have a shy lil cutie. Nice handiwork Marsh.”

“You know, you’re a total dork and we’re still friends with you,” Mike quipped, his own way of chastising Richie.

Bev shook her head ‘no’, “Not Denbrough, the other one.”

Richie’s eyes settled on the smaller boy, and the realization that he was totally and utterly fucked set in.

Eddie Kaspbrak. The kid peaked at 5’6, and his lack of muscles along with the fact that he wore an _honest to fucking god fanny pack_ didn’t help his 12 year old boy appearance. Of course, the fanny pack got worse— it was full of pills, eye drops, hand sanitizer, lotion, chapstick, and most importantly, his inhaler. Yes, Eddie was a fucking asthmatic hypochondriac and germaphobe, with an equally insane mother. Richie didn’t doubt that the asshole spent more time perusing WebMD than texting or checking social media.

He wore chunky turtlenecks in the winter, and in the hotter months, his tanned legs adorned tube socks and short-shorts (they were awful, although Richie had to admit they made his ass look great). His small hands gripped onto his stuffed backpack (kid already had a fanny pack full of shit, what else did he have to bring to school?). Eddie’s brown hair was always found in a overly gelled comb over, not a hair out of place. He reminded Richie of an off-brand Fred Savage with severe anxiety.

Mostly, Richie knew Eddie Kaspbrak would hate just about every little thing he did. There was no way they’d even be friends, let alone anything more.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me Bev.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!! richie and eddie will actually talk next chapter, don't worry. also for any concerned about the gretta/richie thing it's not Too Big of a Deal as it is in the movie, i just need it for some plot points (but overall richie is like 100% over gretta and it was just something stupid he did).  
> anyways, please comment or talk to me over on tumblr (stevesharrigton) if you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! decided to post two weeks in a row just to get the ball rolling (which is why i still dont have all the chapters figured out as promised, my apologies). i'll probably start the every other week thing for next update (so chapter three should be up by march 4th). i would try to do every week but im a college student who has Stuff to do and also makes gifs and im horrible at finishing my writing so, giving myself a realistic deadline that will still hopefully produce quality work. 
> 
> anyways, richie and eddie finally interact this chapter! it's....................... a bit messy though. and we get to see the rest of the losers club in this one too.

After standing in the hallway arguing with Bev for ten minutes, (“ _ I mean really Bevs,  _ **_fuck_ ** _!” “You said anyone.” “How do we even know he’s gay?!” “Richie, please.” _ ) Richie resigned himself to the fact that he was going to find some way to charm Eddie. Maybe Beverly would let him borrow that spellbook she bought junior year when she had become obsessed with witchcraft and hexing the patriarchy.

Once school was finally over, Richie dropped off Mike at his farm per usual, ranting about the bet the whole ride over. The farm boy nodded along, but he knew the words ‘told you so’ sat on the tip of his tongue.  

They pulled up to his house, the engine idling so he wouldn’t have to spend time getting it to start again, “Don’t wait up for me tonight if you wanna smoke. Got lotsa research in store,” Richie said as Mike grabbed his backpack and got out of the car. 

Mike raised a brow, leaning into the passenger window (which in its broken state always stayed down), “I’m surprised Rich. You never do your homework.”

“Homework shmomwork,” he tapped the end of his cigarette out the window before taking another drag, “Gotta figure out what little ol’ Edward likes. Time for some deep dark internet exploration.” 

“Ah, you’re gonna stalk him. Wasting time on social media does sound much more in character,” Mike smiled.

“It’s not a waste Mikey darlin’, a shit ton of preemo dank is on the line.”

The other boy laughed and shook his head, “Godspeed Tozier.”

Richie saluted Mike as he reversed out back to the main road,  _ Bigmouth Strikes Again _ blasting on the old car radio. 

He weaved through the streets filled with kids walking home or trying to find something to do in this shit-hole town. Long afternoons spent at The Aladdin watching the newest releases or aggressively slamming his fingers down on his favorite game at the arcade came to mind; along with going out of his way to bother just about everyone in his path. Richie never really had many friends when he was younger, spending most of his time alone. He was grateful he crossed paths with Bev and Mike, to fate, luck, God if it existed. The universe was rarely kind to him, but finding them was the best thing that ever happened to him. 

Plus, the first time he had smoked weed, but that was with them too.

Turning onto his street, Richie pulled up to the unsuspecting two-story white house. It was straight out of a handbook on the American Dream; but the closer one looked, the imperfections started to appear.

The box overflowing with bottles once filled with alcohol next to the recycling bin, which was already too full with more empty bottles. A crooked ‘Home Sweet Home’ sign by the front door. Dying grass, overgrown and conquered with the little weeds Richie used to make wishes on before blowing the seeds into the summer air  _ (I wish for friends. I wish for better parents. I wish to be loved) _ .

He parked the station wagon on the curb, saving the space next to his Mom’s car for his father.

Maggie’s car hadn’t been driven in months (years?), and Richie absently wondered if it would even work anymore. It was nice, a decent heater and it drove well, at least it did when she had bothered to drop him off at school as a kid. Despite her general lack of care for the wellbeing of others, Mrs. Tozier did  _ not _ drink and drive. Meaning, she didn’t drive at all, as she was drunk off her ass most of the time.

Richie grabbed his books from the backseat and clambered out, fumbling to find his house key among the mess of weird keychains he bought while high.

He didn’t bother stating his presence, even as a pretense, giving up the habit long ago. 

Maggie Tozier sat outside, her back facing the screen door in the kitchen. A cigarette rested from her fingertips, and Richie wasn’t sure if she was actually smoking it or just watching it burn. Of course, her other hand gripped a bottle of beer, and a wine cooler sat at her feet.

Richie scoffed and bounded up the stairs to his room, a ‘KEEP OUT’ sign and band posters adorning the door.

It was often said that one’s room reflected who they were as a person, and Richie was no exception. That is, to say, his room was an absolute fucking mess. His bed was never made, and clothes and knick knacks littered the floor (he had already tripped over some beat up sneakers as he walked in). Old mugs, comics, a lava lamp, lotion, and an ashtray Bev had made him in ceramics sat on his bedside table (read: an old wooden apple carton). The only thing that he kept clear was his record player and vinyls at the edge of the bed, which were meticulously organized.

He tossed his notebooks on his desk, alongside stolen pens, his laptop, and his bong. If his parents actually fucking talked to him he would bother to hide his shit, but it didn’t really matter. 

Picking up his laptop and its charger, Richie was on his way out again. He could stay home to conduct his research, but he hated the stuffiness and how lifeless the house felt. It wasn’t really even a home, at least not his. Plus, coffee. It was a necessity, especially for the amount of bullshit he’d have to go through just for the tiny brat.

Richie drove to the Starbucks on Main and Belmont, strolling up to barista and ordering his usual: venti quadruple-shot, black. While he often gorged himself on sweets, his need for caffeine could only be sated by the purest form the coffeeshop could offer. 

Per usual, the barista gave him a look, “You sure?”

“Listen, I’ve already made a shit ton of horrible decisions today. Trust me, this is not the worst of them,” Richie answered, sliding the cash across the counter

She raised her brows but said nothing else, handing him the change. 

He set up shop at a table by the window in the back, away enough from the other patrons. Most of the time Richie threw caution to the wind, but he figured it would suspicious if someone saw him furiously stalking someone who looked like they hadn’t even graduated from middle school. 

After retrieving his coffee, opening his MacBook, and plugging his headphones in, Richie scoured Instagram first. ‘Eddie.k’ didn’t post much, mostly some artsy photos, including ones of Bill and Stanley Uris (their other best friend). There were only one or two selfies, much to Richie’s disappointment. Eddie wasn’t actually too bad looking if you ignored his clothes, his hair, his… everything. Freckles dusted his face, concentrated around his little nose, a few on his lips. Cute lips. Cute cheeks. He had the urge to pinch them. But Jesus, that combover. What was he, a balding man in the 80’s?

Other than those pictures, Eddie hadn’t really posted to Instagram in months. He moved onto  his tagged photos. They had some more substance, although Eddie had pretty much only been tagged in pictures by Bill and Stan. It wasn’t like Richie wasn’t in the same boat of having only a few close friends, but at least he hung out with other people. 

For the most part, the pictures were pretty normal, the three of them hanging out. Richie couldn’t help but snort at a picture of the three, presumably after a sleepover. They looked exhausted, hair messy, and were brushing their teeth. Pretty mundane, but Eddie had pulled a ridiculous face in the mirror. It was silly, but Richie hadn’t even thought Eddie was capable of making jokes or doing weird shit. The fucker was always uptight, serious even when they had a substitute. Unsurprisingly, Eddie did not appreciate the post.

**eddie.k:** literally stan delete this!!!!!! 

**stantheman:** **@eddie.k** , sorry sweatie (:

Richie grinned and continued to scroll, stopping at a picture of Eddie lying down on the grass, laughing. He wore a red tracksuit, the one students wore to P.E. when the bitter chill of autumn came to Derry. His hair must’ve been a little sweaty, because it was curling up into a messy halo around his grinning face. Richie wanted to know  _ this _ Eddie, see him curl up laughing, but he knew that would never happen. 

He perused their profiles for a while before growing bored, downing a third of his coffee before moving on. Except Eddie didn’t seem to have a Twitter, or a Snapchat. A quick google search of his name only came up with a few images and… a Facebook profile?

Richie prayed that it was an old one Eddie had never deleted, but after the page loaded he saw that the most recent status was made last night.

“Oh my fucking  _ god _ ,” he whispered to himself. 

Eddie’s profile picture made him look particularly child-like, a weird picture of him pointing to the camera like he was cool, even though the same hand had a clunky old watch wrapped around it. His header picture displayed the quote ‘there is bravery in being soft’.

Richie snorted, “Yeah, a soft fucking dick!” 

Another patron scoffed at his fowl mouth, and he shot her a smug grin.

Eddie only had 40 friends on the site, which consisted of Bill, Stan, some of the other nerds at Derry High, and his mother and her friends. It wasn’t like someone’s Facebook friends actually mattered, especially because only middle aged mothers who posted minion memes about their alcoholism used it anymore, but it was still kinda pitiful. 

His posts were generally uninteresting, stuff like  _ ‘super nervous for the math test’ _ , or  _ ‘soooooooooooo bored ://///’ _ . Otherwise, he mostly just shared pictures of cute dogs and DIY videos.

It was hard to find any useful information on Eddie, since he obviously lied a lot. Not in the way of bragging, or saying that he did things he didn’t (like Richie did). But there were comments from Mrs. Kaspbrak’s friends calling him a lady killer, or a few posts calling Carly Rae Jepsen cute (please,  _ Run Away With Me _ is the one of gayest songs of all time). Eddie was closeted, and Richie knew from experience that someone could never really be themselves around others if they weren’t out. 

What his profile lacked in useable information, it more than made up with blackmail material. 

Take, for instance, little Eddie in possibly the gayest fucking hat imaginable. 

He screeched as he saw the picture of the eleven year old, a white fedora-bucket hat hybrid sitting atop his tiny head, before breaking out into a full on wheeze. Richie was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, and then he thought about Eddie using his inhaler in that gay ass hat and laughed even harder. 

The other customers began to stare, some concerned, and others pissed off at the disturbance. 

Once he had collected himself somewhat, Richie sent a screenshot to the group chat.

**_the losers_ **

**bev:** oh my fucking G O D 

**richie:** I CANT FUCKIN BREATHE ELRNKKLNERG

**richie:** LIKE F U C K !!! KLJKLGRJKLLEJK

**richie:** LOOK AT HIS GAY HAT

**richie:** LIKE, IT’S GAYER THAN WEARING NOTHING BUT A PRIDE FLAG AND GLITTER

**richie:** HE LOOKS LIKE A TWINKY SKIPPER

**richie:** HOW IS THAT HAT MORE GAY THAN EVERY SINGLE ONE RYAN EVANS WORE IN THE ENTIRE HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL FRANCHISE COMBINED

**bev:** i’m muting you

**mike:** me too

**mike:** also that hat isn’t  _ that _ bad

“‘Not  _ that _ bad?!’” Richie squawked, not that he’d be able to hear him. 

(Really, Richie had no authority on the subject. He still donned the occasional Hawaiian shirt over his tees). 

He refreshed Eddie’s profile, seeing that he had made a new status.

_ Eddie Kaspbrak:  _ big night friday, nervous but excited !!!!

Richie raised his brows in intrigue, seeing that Bill and a handful of other people liked the status. What was going on Friday?

He checked to see if Bill had posted anything, if Eddie was going somewhere, chances were Bill was too. 

_Bill Denbrough:_ almost the weekend, finally ready to let loose 

Seriously, it would’ve been so much easier if Bill was the guy Richie had to woo. Kid was probably fucking nervous for a  _ party _ , a place where you threw caution to the wind and had a good time. Still, he made a mental note about finding out what their Friday plans were.

Richie sighed, taking another swig of his coffee, “God, what a _fucking_ _loser_.”

Suddenly, his headphones were being tugged out of his ear by an angry middle-aged woman with short-layered hair and eye bags.

“Hey, what the fuck?” Richie glared, snatching back his headphones.

The woman returned the look, putting her hands on her hips, “Don’t you have respect for the other customers?!”

“Sweetheart, I don’t have respect for  _ myself _ , let alone some PTA moms-- like the post-divorce haircut by the way.”

Apparently, his finger guns did not soften the blow, because the lady started to scream at him.

And,  _ apparently _ , this lady was also the manager, and was pushing him out the door.

So great, Eddie and his dumb gay hat got him banned from Starbucks. 

———

Even though he was wounded from Eddie’s betrayal, (because Richie getting kicked out was definitely not his fault-- it was Eddie’s homosexual headwear. An anthropomorphic device of chaos, that Eddie owned, so, yeah, it was Kaspbrak’s fucking fault.) Richie still skipped smoking on Thursday to spend his lunch with the tiny fuck. 

Obviously, they hadn’t made plans to do so, but Richie had, and he really couldn’t delay starting the bet. There was a lot on the line.

So, after getting out of econ (turning in an unstudied for but probably aced quiz), and throwing his shit in his locker, Richie detoured to the cafeteria. 

The place was a fucking mess, and it reminded Richie just why he avoided the place. It was pure chaos, loud and overwhelming, a million things to get distracted by. Freshman with their stupid rolling backpacks kept whizzing by, making Richie trip or get his feet ran over. The tables were already filled, the honor roll kids, the partiers, Gretta and her gang. Fucking cliches. 

He got in line, picking up a tray and proceeding to fiddle with the buttons at the cuff of his black and white flannel; trying to tune out the buzz of conversation. It was weird, at parties he thrived on the noise and disorder, but here all it was doing was fucking with his ADHD. 

Richie drummed a beat onto his tray as the line moved forward and picked the most edible looking slop from the menu. The lunch lady glowered at him as he reached for his money only to realize he had put it in the other pocket, fumbling to put the bills and coins on the counter.  

As she put the money in the register, Richie looked around the room, checking to see where Eddie was sitting. He was sat near one of the exits, carefully taking out his lunch and swinging his legs. And he was alone. Perfect.

“Kid, do you want a receipt or not?” the lunch lady snapped from across from him.

Richie blinked back into focus, “Uh, sure, sorry.”

She sighed and printed out the receipt, slamming it down on the tray, “Next!”

Grabbing his tray, Richie plucked up some plastic cutlery and made his way through the sea of students to Eddie Kaspbrak. He had to twist and lift his tray a bit, but eventually the crowds started to part a bit. A chorus of whispers started to erupt. Stupid small town.

“Is that Richie Tozier?”

“I think, but doesn’t he always get high with his stoner friends?”

“What is he doing here?”

“God, he’s so hot.”

Richie smirked, sending a wink at the girl’s praise before sitting across from Eddie. He watched for a moment as the boy continued to focus on on unpacking his utensils and napkins before clearing his throat. 

Eddie’s eyes snapped up from his lunchbox, widening when he saw Richie.

“What the _fuck_?” It was meant to be a whisper to himself, but Eddie’s voice was louder than expected.

Richie grinned at the blushing boy, “Well, hello to you to Eds.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie snapped, returning to his food. 

Richie waited for him to say something else, at least fucking  _ look _ at him, but the little fuck kept his eyes glued to his grapes, nails aggressively ripping the fruit from their stems.

“Okay,” he started, taking a sip of his apple juice, “So, you may be wondering why I’m sitting with you—“

Eddie interrupted, annoyance apparent in every fiber of his being, “Is this gonna be quick or not?”

“I’m  _ hoping _ it’s not quick, although given how hot I am it’s difficult for people to control themselves.”

A long, deep sigh came from Eddie’s (cute, soft) lips. Eddie grabbed at Richie’s hands, flipping them over so that the palms faced upwards.

“Wow, a bit forward, but I’m liking your style Kaspbrak,” Richie winked.

Eddie rolled his eyes and proceed to take out hand sanitizer from his fanny pack, squirting the floral scented product into Richie’s hands. 

Honestly, what the fuck? 

He must’ve sent the same message to Eddie with his face, because Eddie said, “You obviously aren’t gonna leave me the fuck alone, and if you’re gonna be in my space, you need to be clean.”

Richie raised a brow at this but rubbed the hand sanitizer into his hands anyways.

Jesus Christ, what a weird, defensive little bitch.

Eddie watched with focused eyes, and only spoke when Richie was finished.

“Continue.”

It took a moment for Richie to gain his bearings once more. This mission seemed dead on arrival, but he had to keep trying anyways.

“So, Eddie…” Richie trailed off, twirling the pasta on his plate before his eyes lit up, “Eddie Spaghetti, Eduardo, what’s up?”

Eddie scowled, “That’s not my fucking name!” he squeaked, “And ‘ _ what’s up?’  _ I mean, we’ve barely even talked before. You think I’m just gonna put up with this because you’re Richie Tozier? I swear to  _ god _ , if this is some fucking bullying thing...”

Around them, people began to stare and eavesdrop at the sound of Eddie yelling. Fucking perfect.

Richie blinked back at the boy across from him, now red in the face for a different reason, “Calm down, I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“Fat fucking chance.”

Okay, wow. Richie had more work cut out for him than expected. He thought of what to say next as he watched Eddie finish his grapes. 

“This isn’t, like, a joke,” (it wasn’t real either), “I just wanna hang out.”

“Hang out?” Eddie’s chocolate brown eyes met Richie’s, his tone mocking.

Richie nodded, “Yeah, ya know, kick it with the homies. Make out a little if you’re down. Friend stuff.”

Eddie’s jaw clenched, “You’re unbelievable. Just fucking unbe— you know, how can you even say any of that shit? How can we be ‘homies’ if we’ve never ‘hung out’ before? And don’t want to-- _ I’m not _ \-- you don’t know me!”

There was something underlying in Eddie’s voice as he snapped, wavering at the end. Richie, like most things in life, was completely and utterly fucking up. 

“Well then, how about we fix that?” Richie leaned forward, “I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna—“

Abruptly, Eddie stood up, grabbing his food and walked off, making his way towards the cafeteria line where Bill and Stan were paying for their lunch.

Richie looked around at all the watching faces, some snickering and others as shocked as he was.

“...Embarrass me horribly in front of all these people.” 

He took a deep breath, and shoved some spaghetti in his mouth, his frown growing larger at the disgusting taste. Richie was often considered a wild card, but this was when routine was a good thing. He should’ve just avoided this and sparked up with Bev and Mike.

Actually, he was going to do just that. There was still some left in lunch, and no reason for him to stay in the cafeteria if Eddie was giving him the cold shoulder. More like a giant fucking iceberg but still, pointless. Besides, he  _ really _ needed to get high now. Eddie ruined his whole mood and pissed him the fuck off.

Richie got up and tossed out the inedible garbage before going to the usual spot, finger itching for a joint. 

He used his foot to push open the door, which would’ve been cool, except with his clumsiness and horrible luck he tripped forward, narrowly avoiding falling down the steps and face planting by grabbing the railing.

As Richie caught his breath and stabilized himself, he could hear his friends laughing. 

“Back so soon?” Bev smirked knowingly, taking a drag.

Richie huffed, “Ha ha. Let’s yuck it up for my misfortune,” he grabbed her joint and took a long hit, “This fucking kid, Bev. I don’t think I can do this!”

“As in, you’re morally incapable of leading him on?” Mike asked hopefully.

“Please, let’s be realistic here Mikey. No, that kid is like, the fuckin devil incarnate. Shithead is fucking crazy!” Richie paced, smoking from the joint.

Bev laughed, “What makes you say that?”

“Why don’t ya ask the whole fucking school?” Richie snapped, though the anger wasn’t directed at her, “They were watching it all go down. If that wheezy asshole ruins my reputation—“

“What reputation?” Mike interjected.

Richie rolled his eyes and flipped him off.

Another voice spoke up, “I dunno, Richie’s pretty well known. I like him well enough.”

Richie whirled around, just noticing a new face among the usual group, Ben Hanscom.

The eternal new kid, since no one ever moved to ass backwards Derry, was not someone he’d expect to be behind the art building. Maybe reciting poetry or some shit, but not blazing. Ben was sweet and genuine, albeit a little shy. He was no longer the chubby kid he once was, more stocky and muscular now. They weren’t too close, as the tawny haired boy spent more time with Mike and Bev, and if not them, the other dorks (like Eddie and his friends). But either way, dude was pretty chill. Richie just didn’t really want him there mid-meltdown.

“Haystack?! You  _ smoke _ ?!” he whistled, “ _ Ho-ly shit _ , who woulda thought!”

Ben shook his head, “Uh, no I don’t. Mike and I just had to study for history next block.”

His deep brown eyes flitted to Beverly, who had now stolen back her joint and was playing with the key that hung from her neck. Yeah, studying was the only reason. Not Ben’s excruciatingly obvious crush on the red head. 

“We would’ve just gone to the library, but Bev and I made a bet about if you’d be successful or not today,” Mike said. 

Richie gasped, “Betting on my failure? Fuck you guys, Benny Boy is my new best friend.”

“I didn’t sign up for that.”

“Hey,  _ I _ bet on you succeeding,” Mike put his hands up in surrender, “She’s the one who thought you’d screw it up.”

“And I was right. Pay up,” Bev smiled, holding out her palm.

Mike dropped a candy bar in it with a deep sigh. She tore open the wrapping, taking a savage bite of the chocolatey sweet.

“I think you have a gambling problem,” Mike quipped.

Bev shrugged, “Not a problem if I keep winning.”

She grinned, her teeth covered in chocolate and spit. Gross. Ben still looked enraptured. Double gross.

“Anyways, can we focus on the  _ important _ bet, and the fact that this fuck is impossible! Seriously, Bev, babygirl, pick anyone else!” Richie whined, plopping his bony ass on the cement.

“First off, don’t call me ‘babygirl’,” she flicked the ash off the end of the joint at him, “Second, the deal was anyone. You either woo him or you don’t.”

Richie opened his mouth to complain again but Ben beat him to it.

“I’m sorry, but what are we talking about?”

The other three looked at each other in panic. Ben was friends with Eddie, there was no way he could find out what was going on. The whole thing would be ruined before it started.

“Nothin!” Richie squeaked, “Just uh… bet that I couldn’t ace a group project. I usually just bullshit a lot of that stuff and leave it up to the others if I can. Partner’s just a little… high strung.”

Bev groaned and Mike sighed. A horrible fucking lie. Richie was already trying to formulate a better one in his head.

Ben smiled, “That’s nice, a wholesome, supportive bet. But you really should just communicate with your partner. They might be nervous because of your history is all.”

Richie let out a sound of relief before realizing Ben’s advice could actually be helpful.

“Sure, but I already tried to talk to him and it didn’t go well,” he explained.

Bev and Mike raised their brows, catching on.

“Well, how did you talk to him?” Ben asked, “Was it an ambush or a friendly conversation?

Bev snorted, “Ambush, knowing Richie. He doesn’t do friendly conversations.”

“Maybe with you, because you’re on my ass all the time,” Richie shot back, “But uh, she’s right. Shouldn’t matter though, everyone knows that’s how Tough Guy Tozier does his business.”

Mike groaned, “Please don’t call yourself that ever again.”

“You’re just coming on too strong. You have to consider what he likes, what he wants. A good partnership comes with compromise and communication,” Ben nodded sagely.

Richie ruffled his hair, putting on his trusty British voice, “Thank you Advisor Hanscom. Your wisdom is greatly appreciated.”

Ben smiled awkwardly, his eyes going to Bev once again, “Course.”

He took the joint from Bev, inhaling the musty smoke and blowing it out his nostrils, the burning sensation familiar and welcome.

“And maybe, you should talk to him sober next time,” Mike suggested.

Richie laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

———

By the time the final bell rang, he was still feeling defeated and unsure of his next move. Sure, he’d have to dial back his trashmouth charm, try to seem actually invested in Eddie but… that wasn’t going to happen if the brat never talked to him again. Richie had to find a way to break the tension between them, start fresh.

He sulked to his locker, pulling out his shit from the looming mess. Loose binder paper and pencils fell onto the ground, and Richie just wanted to bang his head against the wall of metal. Also, go home and smoke while playing video games but, mostly, hit his head repeatedly. Maybe he’d lose enough brain cells to forget the entire day.

After a few moments of excessive cursing, Richie grabbed what he needed and got everything that fell back into the locker. He noticed a new post it on the door just before he closed it.

_ Don’t give up :) <3 - mike _

Richie smiled, and slammed the locker shut with a resounding clang. With a little stretch and a fix of his glasses, he strolled through the halls, making his way to the parking lot to wait for Mike.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bill and Stan loitering around the halls as well, engaged in (an undoubtedly boring) conversation.

He remembered Bill and Eddie’s facebook status’ about exciting plans for tomorrow night and decided he should investigate.

“Billiam! Staniel!” Richie called as he approached them, “What’s up?”

The two stopped talking and looked up, Bill smiling while Stan rolled his eyes.

“H-hey, Richie,” Bill waved.  Richie noted that his stutter had gotten a lot better just over the past year. The two of them had shared a few classes when they were juniors and were pretty friendly with one another. At least compared to his relationship with Eddie and Stan, who also seemed to hate him for no reason. 

Speaking of, the prim and proper boy was glaring at him, “Didn’t get enough of being a nuisance at lunch?”

Richie raised a brow, “Whatever do you mean?”

Stan scoffed, and opened his mouth to respond, but Bill put a hand on his shoulder, “N-nothing. Stan’s just… on edge. What’s up w-with you?”

“Not much, just trying to figure out what my plans are for tomorrow,” Richie shrugged, “Got any suggestions?”

“The only thing on your mind is where to party? Not surprised,” Stan quipped.

Richie shoved his hands in his pockets, biting his tongue. Snapping at Eddie was what caused his whole operation to go south, and he couldn’t mess up this second chance.

Bill ignored the tension between them, “Well, usually w-we don’t do t-t-too m-much, but it’s s-senior year. Probably going to Peter Gordon's party.” 

“That kid’s an ass.”

“Coming from you, that’s rich,” Stan commented, his arms crossed.

His grinned, “Well, yeah, I  _ am _ Rich.”

Stan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, he is, but he’s also s-super wealthy,” Bill avoided another ‘rich’ pun, “Meaning he’ll h-h-ave q-q-quality shit.”

Richie beamed, “Ah, I get it. You’re Robin Hood-ing that fuck. I like your style Billy Boy.”

He clapped Bill on the shoulder, and the other boy blushed slightly, “W-well, it wasn’t j-just my idea. Eddie and Stan helped.”

“Eddie? He’s coming with you guys?” 

Bill shook his head, “N-no. He was supposed to, b-b-but that art thing came up so he h-had to cancel.”

“Art thing?” Richie asked, suddenly intrigued. This was the information he wanted.

“Yeah,” Bill nodded, “It’s this show that happens every month. At Jester Theatre. He always goes.”

Stan not so subtly elbowed Bill in the ribs, hissing at him to shut up.

“W-what?!”

“Yeah, what’s got your steamed panties in a twist Uris?” Richie smirked.

Stan sent him a scowl, “You know very well Tozier. Eddie told us all about what you did at lunch. Back the fuck off.”

“S-stan, I don’t think he meant--”

“No, Bill, he  _ did _ ,” Stan interrupted, “I don’t know what your game is, but if you hurt him…”

Richie put his hands up in surrender, “Hey, I’m not going to hurt him. He seems pretty strong anyways. I mean no harm.”

Stan didn’t look convinced at all. Fair enough. 

The air between the two was tense, but Bill broke it by clearing his throat, “So, uh, will w-we see you at the p-p-party?”

Richie shook his head ‘no’, “Probably not. I have some more  _ sophisticated _ plans lined up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! next chapter is p much all richie and eddie so get excited.  
> if you enjoyed i would love hearing your feedback below or you can talk to me abt this or like... anything over at my tumblr, stevesharrigton.tumblr.com (i also update my fic there but ao3 is >>>)
> 
> oh and [this is eddie's gay hat](https://78.media.tumblr.com/8f2ed41ccaf856fb9c162055d4e22aa0/tumblr_p17pi01EGo1rxdm11o2_1280.jpg) if you were curious


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all! hope you guys have been good the past couple weeks. thank you for all the love so far, wasn't expecting so much. makes me a little nervous about pleasing everyone but i just gotta get that out of my head (im being too much of an eddie in this chapter).  
> anyways no warnings for this chapter other than a shitload of banter. oh and richie smokes a cig for like two seconds, but that's par for the course. (don't smoke nicotine kiddos).

For the first time in three years, Richie Tozier was not partying on a Friday night.

Sure, he wasn’t always at some rager, but it was pretty much guaranteed he’d be sparking up or drinking; either with Bev and Mike or by himself. Not only was it The Cure’s favorite day, but it was his as well. Going into the weekend was cause for some extra celebration. He didn’t really stress over school, but any thought of projects or tests were wiped from his mind with some dancing and drugs.

Instead, he was parking across from Jester Theatre, about to watch an _art show_. Hypothetically, he was supposed to grow up soon, graduating high school and all. He just didn’t think he’d already be some thirty-five year old with receding hair snapping along to emo poetry about love and death.

Surprisingly, there was a pretty long line formed outside the building. The people of Derry were supposed to shoot at empty beer bottles for fun, not be cultured. Part of him believed tonight was just an elaborate segment of _The Twilight Zone._

He walked blindly across the street, an angry old man honking at him and yelling for being in the way. Richie smiled and waved, letting his lanky legs carry him to the line, enjoying the sound his boots made as they hit the asphalt.

It didn’t take too long to spot Eddie towards the end of the line, considering he was wearing his signature fanny pack. The boy’s hair was a little curlier than usual (though nowhere near the mess atop Richie’s head), and he wore jeans and a black cardigan over striped red shirt. His pristine white sneakers shuffled awkwardly on the concrete, full of nervous energy.

Richie stuffed his hands into his favorite denim jacket as he stood next to asthmatic, “Fancy seeing you here cutie.”

Eddie whipped around, scowl already forming on his face, “Jesus, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

“Not quite, although I can see the resemblance between Mr. Christ and myself,” Richie smirked.

“You can’t just cut in line, idiot,” Eddie huffed, crossing his arms.

Richie shrugged, “Free country short-stack.”

“Great, you’ve called me short and cute in the span of,” Eddie checked his watch, “Fourty-nine seconds. Wanna get another patronizing insult in before a whole minute’s up?”

“Thanks, wheezy, but I’m satisfied.”

Eddie glared at him, the light freckles on his face clustering together as his nose scrunched, “You are absolutely insufferable Richard Tozier. Don’t you have some… Drug den to go to or something? Or can you not resist getting your ass handed to you by me again? Maybe you like to be humiliated.”

Richie laughed, “I’d like to have _your_ ass handed to me, Eddie Spaghetti. Not quite sure about the humiliation kink though. We can test that out later.”

He sent Eddie a wink, and the smaller boy blushed bright red.

“Seriously, what’s your end goal here? I’m not fucking smart if that’s what you’re thinking,” Eddie snapped.

“What?”

Eddie stammered, “I mean, I’m not like, _dumb_ , but I’m not some super genius. Not that I’d want to help you with your homework anyways.”

“Eds, I’ve got a 4.0,” Richie explained, “I have one of the highest GPA’s in the whole school.”

The other boy blushed further, “Oh. Don’t call me Eds.”

Richie smiled smugly, “You’ve got spunk Kaspbrak. I like that.”

“Why don’t you try shutting the fuck up _Tozier_ ,” Eddie retorted as the line moved forward, “So what is this, if not some ploy to get me to tutor you? Some sort of dork outreach program? Because I’m not interested.”

He looked at Richie expectantly for an answer, and Richie just whistled, looking above Eddie’s head at the stars (not that it was difficult to look over the little fuck).

Eddie cleared his throat, and Richie’s playfully widened his eyes, “Oh, sorry. I thought you told me to shut up.”

“Of course, the one time you actually listen to me,” Eddie rolled his eyes, “Fuckin’ trashmouth.”

“To answer your question, this isn’t ‘dork outreach’. I’m not exactly the most popular guy in school anyways. Just wanna get to know you sweet cheeks,” Richie winked, leaning back on his heels.

“So your way of getting to know someone is following them everywhere and stalking them?” Eddie quipped, “I wonder why you’re not more popular.”

Richie gasped in faux offense, “I am _not_ stalking you. Are you saying I don’t look intelligent enough to go to an art show?”

“Yes. You’re wearing a thrasher shirt, I’m pretty sure you all you do is eat pot brownies and loiter around Zumiez,” Eddie deadpanned, “Besides, I’m here all the time. Never seen you around here once.”

Richie laughed at Eddie’s assumption, to the other boy’s shock (and dismay). Eddie’s jaw set, and he fixed his gaze straight ahead, pointedly not giving Richie any attention.

Fine. If that’s the way Eddie was going to play it, so be it. He let out a sigh before fishing his pack of cigs and a fresh lighter out of his pocket. Mike suggested he not be high, but Richie at least needed some nicotine to get through the night.

He placed the cigarette butt between his lips and lit the end, watching the dark orange glow grow as he took a long drag. Richie tilted his head up and blew out the smoke with a tight ‘o’, watching the grey clouds disappear into the stars.

Beside him, Eddie sniffed and looked over, eyes widening as he saw Richie smoking.

“Are you kidding me?!” Eddie squawked, coughing into his elbow, “I’m asthmatic asshole!”

He looked over, flicking the ash on the ground as they moved forward, “I didn’t realize it still affected you all the way down there.”

Eddie glared, fishing out his inhaler from the black fanny pack at his hip, “You’re. An. Asshole,” he growled between pumps of artificial air.  

Richie inhaled once more before throwing the half-smoked cig on the ground and crushing it under his combat boots, “Happy now?”

“No, dipshit. Do you know how dangerous smoking is? It’ll kill you, blacken your lungs, make your teeth fall out--”

Richie put up a hand, “Spare me the lecture, I’ve heard it before.”

“Clearly no one has done it right,” Eddie replied, “Do you know how many germs there are in those little sticks? Hundreds. Hundreds of fucking bacteria in there, same shit they put in rocket fuel.”

“Cool, I’m practically a fucking astronaut then,” Richie grinned, but the smaller boy didn’t look impressed.

Eddie scoffed, waving his hands in the air, “And I know that you don’t seem to have _any_ consideration for others, but second-hand smoking is even more harmful. You’re ruining someone else’s health every time you have one of those.”

Richie blinked, “Okay, good point. Though I rarely smoke nicotine anymore anyways. Mr. Green and I have a more steady, stable, relationship.”

“You’re gonna die before you’re thirty, idiot,” Eddie chastised, kicking a pebble.

“Exactly. Grant a dying man his wish and spend an evening with him,” Richie got onto his knees and pleaded, grabbing onto Eddie’s legs, “You can’t be that heartless Eds!”

Eddie groaned, shaking Richie off of him, “Fucking fine trashmouth. You’re so embarrassing.” He looked around to see who was watching the exchange. Which was just about everyone in line, seeing as Richie had a flair for the dramatic and had practically bellowed.

Richie smiled triumphantly as he stood, “You won’t regret it Eddie dear.”

He visibly flinched at the nickname before grumbling, “I already am.”

They approached the ticket booth, and the boy managing it instantly smiled as he saw Eddie, “Finally! I was worried you weren’t gonna come Eddie.”

Eddie scratched the back of his head, sheepish, “Yeah, almost didn’t make it out. Hopefully I’ll still get a good seat.”

Why was he even worried? They still had ten more minutes before the show started.

“Psh, even if that were true I’m sure they’d get up for _you_ instantly,” the other boy smiled, his teeth perfectly straight and blindingly white.

Eddie shook his head, “No way. But I appreciate the lie, Trevor.”

“Only the truth Eddie, you know how I operate,” Trevor grinned.

Oh my god. They were _flirting_ with each other.

Not that he wasn’t having fun watching how awkward they were, but if Richie had to sweep Eddie off his feet, he’d have to intervene— and quick.

“So, how much are the tickets?” Richie interrupted, “I’ll pay for you Eds.”

The other boy’s jaw dropped a bit, “‘Eds?’ Wait, is this… a _date_?”

Eddie shook his head furiously, “No! We--no, uh it’s not. Like, Richie’s, he’s my uh…”

“Keep going, I’m having fun with this,” Richie leaned on the window, a shit-eating grin plastered on his pale face.

“He’s my friend,” Eddie sighed, though the pained expression on his soft face said otherwise.

“Sure,” Trevor winked, and handed them two tickets, “Have fun in there.”

Eddie grabbed them, sending Trevor a weak thank you before walking away and shoving a ticket in Richie’s hand.

“Did he just give us free tickets because he thinks we’re on a date? Wow, the kid really believes in love,” Richie said as they handed their tickets to the usher and headed inside the theatre.

“Just shut up okay?”

Richie complied, taking in his surroundings. They stepped into a large lobby with brick walls. Paintings and photographs lined them, while statues were positioned all over the concrete flooring. People were mingling, checking out the art and laughing amongst themselves. He had expected snooty old people, or maybe some fake hipsters, but the place seemed to be filled with average teens. In fact, some of them actually looked _cool_ . Tattoos, dyed hair, piercings. Did Eddie really come _here_ all the time?

Speaking of, the boy tugged on Richie’s sleeve, “Come on idiot, we can look at this later. We’re gonna miss the performance art.”

“The what?”

Eddie sighed and took off. He was surprisingly fast for being so tiny. Richie caught up with him with ease and followed him through an old Victorian-esque archway made of peeling wood.

It led to another room, one with a wooden floor and high ceilings. Against the wall furthest from them stood a stage, where someone was setting up a microphone. The room was furnished with wooden tables and chairs; as well as old Victorian armchairs and loveseats that were made of worn red velvet. Candles made for an intimate atmosphere, as well as the light jazz playing. To their left was an old bar, serving food and drink.

Eddie weaved his way to one of the armchairs toward the back and sat down gracefully. Richie plopped down into the one beside him, letting his long legs stretch all the way out.

“So, performance art? You gonna get your cute butt up there and recite some emo poetry? Warn me about the horrors of global warming through interpretive dance?” Richie asked.

“I thought you said you came here all the time,” Eddie smirked, relishing the look on Richie’s face, “But no, dipshit. Not my speed.”

Richie frowned, “You’re telling me you come here all the time, but you don’t even participate? Here I was thinking you’d serenade me.”

Eddie laughed, “Yeah, like I’d do that for _you_ even if I sang.”

“Guess the musical ability rests upon my shoulders.”

“You sing?” Eddie raised a brow.

Richie nodded, “More of a guitar player, but I can carry a tune. Bet I could blow everyone in here out of the water with my magic fingers,” he wiggled his fingers while raising his brows suggestively.

Eddie rolled his eyes for the millionth time that night, “Sure. I’m gonna get a drink. Want anything?”

“I would ask for a beer, but they might even hesitate to give you juice,” Richie quipped, “Not smart to give little kids a lot of sugar.”

The other boy sighed and sent off a quick text before setting his phone on the side table and going off to the bar.

Richie watched him walk over, not so subtly looking at his ass. Not quite as nice as when he wore those shorts, but great nonetheless.

Before Eddie could catch him, Richie looked around and saw that his phone was still unlocked on the table. Idiot.

He opened up the contact app, creating a new one for himself and giggling the whole time. Naturally, ‘Sexy Richie’ with about ten heart emojis, an eggplant, and water droplets.

A dumb smile grew on his face as he sent himself a text through Eddie’s phone.

 **eddie spaghetti:**  hi hottie ;P

Quickly, Richie returned Eddie’s phone to its place and whistled a little tune, watching as people settled in and chattered excitedly.

Evidently, Eddie wasn’t moving as fast as Richie, taking his time and talking to the bartender. The two of them started to laugh, Eddie’s small head falling back. Seriously, did this brat know everyone here? It made some sense, considering he was here often. But it just didn’t make sense that the germaphobe was so close to all these cool people, especially since he didn’t even perform. What made Eddie so special?

Richie slid down further in his seat, sulking. Yeah, he was more popular than Eddie, but other than Bev and Mike his ‘crowd’ didn’t _really_ give a shit about him.

Then, he felt his phone finally buzz with the text ‘Eddie’ had sent him, and instantly felt a little better. Who gave a shit about any of this if he was one step closer to winning the bet?

Moments later Eddie returned, smiling to himself, two drinks in one hand and a small bowl of popcorn in the other.

“Got us Shirley Temple’s,” Eddie said, placing them on the table between the chairs, “Popcorn’s got extra butter and salt.”

Richie grabbed the cold glass, taking a sip through the red straw, “Mm, delicious! Quite a… _Fruity_ choice Eds.”

“Even your dumb jokes can’t ruin my mood trashmouth,” Eddie sat down.

“Yeah, what’s with the grin? Realize you’re hanging out with the hottest guy in all of Derry?”

Eddie snorted, “Just finished talking to him over at the bar. Made some plans for later.”

Richie’s jaw dropped, dumbfounded, and Eddie laughed into his drink.

Just like that, Richie was losing the little bit of attention Eddie gave him, and fast. There had to be some way to fix it.

He opened his mouth to speak, maybe tell a dumb joke, but was interrupted by the lights dimming and the emcee walking up to the microphone.

“Great to see so many faces tonight, supporting your local artists! This show is all about creating a safe space to share your creations and make meaningful bonds. If you’d still like to come up on stage and perform for us, you still have some time to sign up! For now, enjoy, and don’t forget to check out the gallery in the lobby and donate if you can.”

Richie applauded along with the others as the first person came on stage, dressed in nothing but a pink silken robe, and laid down in the middle of the stage.

Okay. Perfectly normal.

The poem, performance, whatever it was, wasn’t so bad in the end. They talked about not feeling like they fit in anywhere, not even their own body, how they stayed inside all day rotting away. So, depressing as shit, but not half bad.

Once they had finished, Richie moved to clap his hands, but Eddie grabbed them, glaring.

“What?” he hissed.

Eddie started snapping and nodded his head to show that everyone else was doing the same. It was one of _those_ art shows.

Richie rolled his eyes and snapped, thankfully he had gotten past his inability to one afternoon as a young boy, or he would’ve been embarrassed.

He continued to watch the other acts with only some attention, watching Eddie instead. Part of it was because Richie had a hard time following most of the performances, whether it be the flowery metaphors and strange subjects or just the fact that some of the flashing lights and pure boredom were fucking with his ADHD.

Really, he was much more interested in how happy and _alive_ Eddie looked. There was something sort of enrapturing in the ways his eyes would glisten with tears when someone talked about being kicked out of their home, or the way his face scrunched up and head would tilt back when someone told a funny joke. The blush that dusted his cheeks when someone recited their sonnet, full of love (and some surprisingly kinky shit). How his face looked focused and sympathetic as someone shared their story, or how his head bobbed as someone sang yet another Tegan and Sara cover.

At school his guard was always up, a scowl on his face, turning down another hall to avoid everyone else. But here, Eddie was vulnerable, in his element. Who he really was.

Eddie looked over and whispered, “Stop staring at me weirdo. Watch the show.”

“I like when you boss me around Eds.”

Eddie scoffed but reddened, focusing on the stage pointedly.

(And even though Richie was almost legally blind according to the state of Maine, he noticed the way Eddie glanced back at him a moment later).

“Up next, reading some of his poetry is Ben Hanscom!”

Oh, screw being polite, this was Richie’s friend. (Sort of).

Richie whistled and clapped, “Let’s go Benny Boy!”

Next to him, Eddie slid down in his seat, embarrassed.

On stage, Ben laughed nervously and waved awkwardly to Richie and Eddie, the former winking and sending finger guns in return. Eddie mouthed the words ‘I’m so sorry’.

Ben cleared his throat before speaking, smooth, honeyed words tumbling from his lips-- his poetry felt like floating on water on a sunny summer day.

“Young boy, you are full of love and hope for the world. Picking flowers with delicate touch and pouring over books, instead of crushing the petals in your hand and taking other stories as your own. You love as soft as your round belly, full of mom’s homemade marmalade and butterflies for just about everyone you meet. Rosy cheeks because you are flustered, not angry, why oh why, are you not angry, shoving your ego and opinions down everyone’s throats like you’re supposed to? Passion is _weak_ , feelings are nothing, didn’t anyone tell you to shape up and stop talking? Stop worrying, stop being a pussy, and _do something?_ ”

Tears threatened to prick at Richie’s eyes, from the emotional weight of the words and the way Ben delivered them.

Ben took a shaky breath before continuing, “Men are made to be strong, to fight, to be stoic. You’ll never be heroic sitting alone, writing down words on page-- you’re too frightened to share them on stage. There’s something wrong with you, you love everyone, too much too deeply. Touch is for pleasure's sake solely, not to show anyone woman, man, or non-binary the emotions that run through your veins, for those you should feel ashamed.”

He could feel the emotions within the room-- he understood why. Ben delivered his poem with passion, and honestly, Richie could relate. Maybe he wasn’t soft, but he wasn’t the ‘ideal male’ especially considering he wasn’t straight. (Which, by the way, was Been queer? Richie had no idea. He thought Ben was their token straight friend).

It was weird, Richie had expected poetry about flowers and death, or covers of the Top 40 on ukuleles, but the show was actually _moving_ him. The topics were relatable, dealing with sexuality, gender, and the love poems weren’t cliché and heteronormative.

_Wait._

As the crowd snapped for Ben, Richie leaned over to Eddie.

“Is this like, a gay thing?”

Eddie bristled, voice laced with anger, “Would you have a problem with it if was?”

Richie let out a booming laugh, one that shook his whole body, and Eddie scowled at him as some of the audience turned around.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh,” Richie wheezed, “It’s just that I’m gay as fuck. Well, bi, but.”

“Oh,” Eddie replied lamely, “Uh, yeah. This show is for LGBT+ artists to showcase their work.”

“I thought there was only a handful of us in Derry,” Richie admitted.

“You’d be surprised. Besides, people come to see the show from neighboring towns.”

“This place is that popular?” Richie raised his brows and Eddie nodded, “I should’ve come here long ago if there were cool girls and cuties like you.”

Eddie smirked, “Well, your cred around here is about to shoot up tonight.”

“Because you’re so well known? I don’t get it, you’re definitely not ‘popular’ for the same reason I am, and you don’t go up on stage. Yet, you’ve got these fuckers practically eating out of your hand. I mean, free tickets?”

“Maybe they like me because I’m not a total trashmouth,” Eddie quipped.

Richie clicked his tongue, “No. It’s totally that ass of yours. Seriously, those cherubic cheeks have some serious voodoo magic Eds.”

“Eddie,” the boy corrected, “And I can’t believe the words ‘cherubic cheeks’ just left your lips.”

“You’re not denying the otherworldly power of your thicc ass Eduardo,” Richie pointed out.

Eddie laughed, “No, I am not,” the smirk on his face grew wider, “But no, you have to earn your cred here. _This_ ass is not giving handouts.”

“Wish it was giving handys— wait no, it’s because I’m putting hand _ins._ Shit, hold on, you _are_ an ass. I mean, such a high-class ass I wouldn’t expect it for free! Holy fuck, there was just too much potential there for me to pick just one,” Richie said, and Eddie rolled his eyes, “But uh, how am I supposed to ‘earn’ it, exactly?”

Eddie smiled and shrugged with faux innocence, “You’ll see.”

Richie’s brows furrowed, he was not expecting this mischievous side of Eddie.

“Next up, Richie Tah-zee-ear, performing a song on guitar!”

“What?!” He screeched, eyes wide behind his glasses.

Eddie wore a shit-eating grin that rivaled Richie’s, “And _those_ are the plans.”

“You signed me up?” Richie squawked.

“Well yeah, you said you could amaze everyone with your ‘magic fingers’,” Eddie replied, imitating the motion Richie had done previously with his hands, “Show me what you got.”

The emcee cleared his throat, “Uh, Richie?”

Richie shook his head, “No fuckin way. Besides, asshat got my name wrong— so it ain’t me.”

Eddie shot him a look, “Listen dipshit, you’ve made my life a living hell for the past few days. Just go up there. Prove to me that you’re worth it.”

He shouldn’t do this. He’ll make a total ass out of himself, and not of his own volition, but because of a little spitfire munchkin. Plus, he was sort of shit at guitar.

But he really had been a dick to Eddie lately, and maybe he could get his point across through song.

Richie huffed, “Fuck it,” and jogged up to the staged, climbing on, “Here, I’m here! Sorry.”

A stage tech handed him a guitar complete with a capo and pick. Richie put the strap over himself and strummed absent-mindedly.

“Uh, this is a _little_ last minute so sorry if it’s a bit shit,” he saw Eddie grinning from ear to ear, his phone recording Richie.

Eddie may be a secret evil genius, but being a jackass was embedded in Richie’s brain. He had the perfect song— good thing he had most of The Smiths and Morrissey’s discography memorized by heart.

“This is dedicated to my dearest, super sexy, Spaghetti Man.”

Richie relished in the vein popping out of Eddie’s neck as he played the opening riff on his guitar, leaning towards the mic.

“ _The more you ignore me, the closer I get— you’re wasting your time.”_

Eddie’s face instantly dropped.

He continued, “ _I am now a central part of your mind’s landscape; whether you care or do not. Yeah, I’ve made up your mind.”_

He sang the chorus, some of the crowd bobbing their head with his shoddy guitar playing. His chord switching was sloppy, and he needed to press harder on the strings, but overall it did the job.

At this point, Eddie had stopped recording and sat pouting with crossed arms in his seat.

Richie made direct eye contact with him, his rough and husky voice singing, “ _Take the easy way and give in. Yeah, and let me in!”_

He continued to sing the outro, reveling in the way people seemed to enjoy it, at least somewhat. Eddie looked exasperated, but he noticed his foot shaking to the beat, and the (admittedly miniscule) smile that crept up on his pink lips when Richie sent him a wink.

He finished with flourish (a.k.a. slamming his pick against the strings repeatedly to the point where they probably should’ve snapped in half) and bowed for longer than he deserved before leaping off the stage and going towards Eddie with a little half jog.

“I know you were trying to ruin my whole entire life with that stunt, but that was actually pretty awesome,” Richie sat down, “I think I’m like, meant to command a stage or something.”

Eddie snorted, “Calm down Mick Jagger. You sounded like a homeless chainsmoker on the corner.”

“ _Some_ girls like that ya know,” Richie downed the rest of his Shirley Temple.

“Well, good thing I’m not a girl then,” Eddie replied, “Pretty sure that’s not true though anyways.”

Richie smirked, “Raspy voices are sexy _Eds_.”

“I think you have a problem understanding what people like and what they don’t, like the fact that I’ve told you several times that _my name is Eddie_.”

“Sure thing Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie shrugged and the other boy groaned, “So, my fingers. Are they magic?”

Eddie chuckled, “They may possess a slight alakazam quality. Think your brain was too busy focusing on being an asshole to reach your full potential though.”

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” Richie place his hand atop his heart, lowering his head.

Eddie huffed, “C’mon, let’s go to the gallery.”

Richie raised a brow, “Isn’t there more of the show?”

“The last few guys are egotistical asswipes, and I’ve already got my fill of that tonight,” Eddie looked pointedly at Richie, and stood up, strolling out into the lobby.

It was mostly deserted, most of the people were still watching the performance art so it was just himself, Eddie, and a few others milling about as light jazz played softly in the background.

There was a small table against the back filled with those little finger sandwiches and cubes of cheese you eat with toothpicks that instantly piqued Richie’s interest. He walked over to it, hearing Eddie yelling at him but tuning out the borderline screeches as he surveyed his options. Richie took one of the platters full of meat and moved the contents to another, rearranging it so he had ungodly amounts of cheese and sandwiches to snack on.

“You’re a fucking _child_ Tozier, Jesus,” Eddie hissed, and slapped at Richie’s slender hands, before picking up the regular paper plates provided and putting a much smaller amount of food, “You didn’t even put any grapes.”

Richie guffawed, “You’re weird as shit Kaspbrak. Kinky too. Want me to be your lowly servant and feed you red grapes?”

He dangled a bunch over Eddie’s head, lowering it slightly when he realized the little fuck wouldn’t even be able to eat it.

“I’d rather be crucified than eat something from your dirty hands. And they’re champagne grapes dipshit,” Edie glared, putting the grapes back on the plate as they walked towards some of the paintings.

“Ah yes, my lack of knowledge on grapes is detestable,” Richie quipped, stuffing about six cheese cubes in his mouth.

They stopped in front of a painting-- if you could even call it that. It was just a white canvas with some green splatter on it. Richie could’ve done better than this the time he was cross faded on Hennessy and too much of that sativa chocolate.

“Interesting,” Richie put his hand on his chin, a thoughtful look on his face, “Looks like Shrek jizzed all over this canvas.”

Eddie giggled into his hand, and if that wasn’t the cutest sound in the whole entire fucking world.

(Richie would handle it the way he does everything. Annoy anyone who said otherwise into submission.)

“Wait, you agree? Thought you’d be all ‘art is subjective’, ‘you should respect the work trashmouth’.”

“Well, yeah, art is subjective,” Eddie started, “But, this is shit. At least Jackson Pollock put a _little_ effort into his work.”

Richie chuckled lightly, vaguely understanding the reference.

Eddie bit his lip, having an internal battle with himself over whether to talk or not, “And like, at least pick another color. _Chartreuse_?”

“It does have a certain _je ne sais quoi_ ,” he agreed, butchering the French.

“Yes, if by _je ne sais quoi_ you mean ‘I don’t know what _the hell they were thinking_ ’,” Eddie joked.

This made Richie laugh much more, “It looks like they just had a baby puke all over the canvas.”

“They certainly captured the feeling of being stuck in a stuffy great aunt’s living room.”

“I suddenly feel inclined to start a book club with all the other divorced soccer moms. First book is Nicholas Sparks of course.”

Eddie nodded, “Of course. See that little white spot?”

“Mhm.”

“Looks like someone flattened Mike Wazowski and stuck him on there.”

Richie laughed, “Wow, who knew Eddie can get off a good one?”

Eddie shrugged, “There’s lots you don’t know about me.”

He had expected some sort of gripe about the fact that they weren’t even friends, but none came. Richie smiled, deciding to stay quiet for once in his life and follow Eddie through the gallery.

Of course, the silence did last long, with Richie commenting on just about every piece. Thankfully most of the works weren’t as awful as the first, but hey, it was fun.

“Just marvelous, I absolutely adore it. I _need_ it for my estate,” Richie said in a pompous British accent.

Eddie looked up at him, a brow raised, “What the fuck was that?”

“My British Guy,” Richie said matter-of-factly.

Eddie rolled his eyes, “Yeah, never do that again.”

“But--”

The smaller boy put up his hand and continued to walk.

They approached another painting, abstract line art of two lovers, “ _Magnifique_ ! _,”_ Richie put his fingers to his lips and kissed them obnoxiously.

“Let me guess, that’s your ‘French Guy’?” Eddie asked, unimpressed.

“ _Oui_. You like?”

“ _Non.”_

In addition to paintings and some small sculptures, there was some photography lining the walls. Some were just scenery, some were models, and others candid moments between friends. Most of them were film, which Richie was sure he’d fuck up, but he sent a few of the pics to Mike, knowing his friend had a bit of a photographer’s eye.

He also sent a piece of cigarettes at various points of completion with butts covered in different lipsticks to Bev. She loved it. Eddie scoffed.

(Richie was pretty sure he’d hear that sound in his dreams tonight. Not that he’d be dreaming of Eddie. Just. He’d heard enough times to haunt him, okay?)

The leftmost wall was filled with four giant canvases, seemingly all by one artist, although it had no nameplate.

Richie wasn’t exactly an art aficionado, but these were stunning. All four pieces were of people, but their figures were filled with different colors. One was of a small boy, filled with impressionist brush strokes of blues, deep, dark, bright, and pale. The rest of the space was white, and even though there were no distinguishable features on the face Richie felt connected to him. The defeated shrug of the shoulders, the head down. This blue boy was sad, alone. Less than.

He took another step forward, observing a painting of two lovers kissing. Like the other, the two men were colorful, this time pale pinks, reds, and yellows. The colors became more intense at the point where their limbs touched, the brightest at the lips. Usually, the only thing with kissing that made him physically feel something was best viewed on an incognito window and only stirred his dick, but this did something to his heart. It felt light and open. Rather than his usual brand of drunk, sloppy makeouts born of out lust, theirs was soft and intimate. An overpour of emotions. He wasn’t really sure how he was able to discern this from a few paint strokes, or why it made him want that sort of love and passion, but it did. Whoever painted these was the real deal.

But the piece that really caught his attention was different from the others. They all had these figures made of colors rather than features, but in this one the boy was made up of all sorts of shades but was surrounded by jet black. His heart was made of deep reds and purples, his lungs yellow and white, the head a swirl of magentas and neck of green ( _not_ chartreuse).  Richie figured the surface level meaning was that he was gay in a less than approving world, because, like Eddie said this was an art show for LGBT artists. (And his own experience informed him they weren’t exactly welcomed with open arms in Derry). However, even more so than the other paintings, Richie felt a connection to this one, and he felt it was more than that.

The rainbow boy was bursting with feeling, with more love than he can handle, but was restrained by something dark-- whether it was a part of himself, or society, or some other external force. He was different from everyone else. Maybe the only way that he could even be himself was through his art. This person was obviously private, as they didn’t even share their name.

“Nothing to say for once?” Eddie asked teasingly, his voice cracking a bit.

Richie realized he had stepped a little too close to the paintings and moved back, “Just. I dunno, it’s dumb.”

Eddie shifted a little closer to him, “I’ve heard you say plenty of dumb things. I’ll be the judge.”

He looked down to Eddie, his soft face free of criticism, watching Richie expectantly. His brown eyes held a hint of curiosity and vulnerability, blinking slowly. Now, Richie did _not_ open up to people, at least people who weren’t Bev and Mike, and they were only privy to his serious emotions once he was already mid-breakdown. But there was _something_ about that fucking look that made him want to talk. That or Eddie had drugged his Shirley Temple.

“Not to sound like some pretentious art fucker, but I guess they just… speak to me,” Richie explained, “Like, it’s just some pigments and solvents on some canvas but I feel like know that boy. Like I _am_ that boy.”

Eddie nodded slowly, “Sure, but, you didn’t feel that with the other paintings?”

“No, they were just pretty to look at. I know the whole art thing is your scene or whatever but I dunno, I always thought stuff like music was better. More enjoyable and relatable. There are hundreds of songs I can connect to and understand, but I can’t look at like that corpse looking fuck yelling and be moved.”

“‘Corpse looking fuck’? You mean _The Scream_? Funny, you both have your mouths open all the time. Figured you would relate,” Eddie quipped, but his voice wasn’t laced with venom. He was trying to ease Richie’s nerves.

Richie laughed, “Sure. These are just fucking spectacular though. Beautiful. I mean, it’s like, this rainbow boy is more than his body or anything can handle. You can’t even make out any features, but his soul is bursting with color in a monochromatic world. Sometimes I feel the same. Like this shithole town doesn’t understand me, that I deserve more than what Derry has to offer. But I’m still stuck here.”

Eddie licked his lips, before opening and closing them like a fish, obviously wanting to say something. He looked down at his sneakers, fidgeting with the end of his cardigan.

“Uh, sorry,” Richie said awkwardly, “You don’t have to tell me, I know it was stupid.”

“No!” Eddie shouted unexpectedly, face reddening at how loud he was, “It wasn’t stupid. I just didn’t… I just didn’t think people would think these were so good.”

Richie raised a brow, “Don’t agree with me? I figured you’d be all over this one.”

Eddie scanned his face before sighing and looking at the other wall, “It’d be weird for me to praise my own work.”

“What?”

“I painted those. They’re my paintings.”

Richie gaped, face whipping back and forth from the paintings to Eddie.

“ _You_ painted that?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, walking forward and pointing to the canvas, “Yes, dipshit.”

A microscopic E.K. was signed in the corner of each piece.

Huh.

“I thought this ‘wasn’t your speed?’” Richie asked.

“That’s performance art. Painting is… everything to me,” Eddie replied.

Suddenly, everything started to make more sense. The way he seemed to know everyone and get free tickets, why he had said he was nervous for tonight-- Eddie wasn’t sure if people would like his art.

“So that’s why everyone around here loves you,” Richie grinned, “They think you’re their own little Van Gogh.”

“Firstly, that is _not_ how you pronounce Van Gogh. Secondly, you seemed to think pretty highly of me just a second ago.”

Richie scratched the back of his neck, “Uh, yeah. I was just faking. Said that to impress you.”

“Sure, of course,” Eddie smiled.

Being embarrassed was not a familiar feeling to Richie, but Eddie had made him feel it twice in the past few days. What the fuck was up with this kid?

“Fine,” Richie shrugged, “You’re really talented. Stunning a trashmouth into silence by means other than kissing is almost impossible.”

Eddie tucked a curl behind his ear, “As amazing of a feat that is, you really don’t need to compliment me. I know I’m not that good.”

“Bullshit. You need to believe in yourself. Seriously, Eds, you got a gift. If someone doesn’t think you’re great they’re wrong.”

Eddie blushed, “Thanks.”

Okay, the whole complimenting thing needed to stop-- this was not on brand. Richie crammed the last of the finger sandwiches in his mouth, and Eddie’s face contorted in disgust.

“So,” Richie spoke around the food in his mouth, “When do I get to come over so you can paint me like one of your French Girls? And is there a possibility that you paint _on_ me?”

He winked, leaning in closer to the other boys’ smaller frame. That’s much more him.

Eddie pushed him away, “I thought you were being serious for once trashmouth.”

Richie’s brows furrowed, “I am being serious. I fully intend to come over and appreciate the fine art that is you and that masterpiece of an ass.”

“Of course. Of fucking course.”

“What?” Richie asked.

“‘ _What_?’ God, I can’t believe I let myself live in delusion for even one second!” Eddie shoved past him, walking out onto the sidewalk.

Confused, Richie ran after him, the cold night air stinging his face.

“Eds, wait!”

“Stop calling me that!” Eddie yelled, “You know, for a moment I thought you may be a real person with actual feelings. That you actually care. That you’re not just some asshole that for some _fucking_ reason gets a kick out of bothering me.”

“That’s not what this is--”

Eddie scoffed, “I was trying _so hard_ to give you the benefit of the doubt this evening. To try to understand you. Bill told me that you were more than just some class clown. And you finally open up to me, and I think that you’re different, that you understand me too. And then you go and make another dipshit joke. You’re the same as everyone else in this fucking town.”

“I meant what I said about those paintings Eddie,” Richie said honestly.

“Can you just leave me the fuck alone?” Eddie’s voice wavered, tears forming in his eyes.

Richie sighed, “C’mon Eddie. It’s late out, and it’s fucking freezing. At least let me give you a ride.

“I don’t want anything from you Richie,” Eddie shot back, turning away.

He watched as Eddie walked off, his figure getting smaller and smaller, becoming swallowed by the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eddie is the most dramatic little fuck in the planet but like, i can't blame him. richie been playing with his emotions too much.  
> anyways, if you were curious, [here's the song richie sang.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RSRIQbpEHY) definitely a jam and also a Song for this au.   
> i will try my hardest to get chapter four out in two week but i also have spring break next week so i dont know how much time i will spend writing.


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